Whitewood
by orangeflavor
Summary: "They have each born enough marks in this life that it should be no difficult thing to yield their flesh to each other." - Merrill and Isabela. The long stretch between land and sea.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.

Author's Note: Gift fic for **Riptide Monzarc** , who also loves some Merribela. ;)

On a more lore-specific note, there is some conjecture about the presence of a Dalish settlement outside Llomeryn in Rivain. Sources tell us that the city has a semi-permanent Dalish presence, but banter in DA2 between Merrill and Isabela has Merrill mentioning that the Dalish haven't traveled that far north yet. So I went with what worked for the fic. Meh.

Whitewood

 _"They have each born enough marks in this life that it should be no difficult thing to yield their flesh to each other."_ \- Merrill and Isabela. The long stretch between land and sea.

Merrill has learned to love what is transitory.

Few things have lingered in her life, and those that have – like guilt, an armful of scars, dark whispers in the night that tell her what is inevitable – they are not things worth loving.

She doesn't deal in absolutes. She has never lived her life that way and doesn't see it changing anytime soon, because she has never _absolutely_ regretted making pacts with demons and she has never _absolutely_ resented Marethari for interfering in those pacts and she has never _absolutely_ forgiven herself for the death of her clan.

There is a perpetual knot of uncertainty in her stomach. She feels it even now, watching Isabela as she gazes out over the dark horizon.

The ships are burning in the harbor, and behind them, Meredith's lyrium fused corpse lies red and glinting in the Gallows courtyard.

"Run," Hawke had told them. And they didn't hesitate.

"Isabela?" Merrill asks, soft and hesitant.

Isabela takes a single deep breath in, and then turns her gaze past the dock. "We'll go north, Kitten."

Smoke billows up before them, the acrid sense of burning whitewood and charred oak mingling with the perpetual tang of piss and blood that suffuses the city. The air is sour and dreadful. It is a city of death. Merrill has been running for such a long, long time.

"Isabela."

The other woman turns, but Merrill has nothing to say that wouldn't sound like some kind of defeat, so she curls her fingers through the other woman's and treasures her warmth.

She wonders how long it will last.

"We go north," the rogue repeats.

Merrill follows, unquestionably.

The tainted smoke seeps into their skin until Merrill realizes she will always carry Kirkwall with her.

And she remembers…

Nothing worth loving has ever lingered in her life.

* * *

"Merrill!"

Hearing her name – and not Isabela's flirty moniker for her – on a scream – stirs an instant, branding fear in Merrill. Everything is suddenly very real, very sharp, very blinding. Some invisible force of the Fade slams into her, dropping her to her knees with the weight of it, sinking into her marrow and hollowing her out.

She screams.

Something slices quick and hot along her thigh, and then it is over.

The templar that had stabbed at her is slumped before her in the damp grass, two dark splotches of blood pooling just beneath his shoulder blades between the edges of his platemail. She glances up, panting, blood already trickling from her temple, and catches sight of Isabela standing crouched behind the body, blades flashing red in the dim moonlight.

They lock eyes for one breathless moment and then Isabela drops her daggers to the grass below and nearly vaults over the dead body to kneel in front of Merrill. Four other templar bodies litter the small clearing.

"Andraste's tits, Kitten, what were you thinking?" Isabela tears at the fabric of Merrill's leg coverings, exposing the wound.

Merrill winces at the pain, eyes finally focusing, one hand searching the grass beside her for her forgotten staff, the other stretching toward Isabela, trembling as it lands in her dark, tangled hair. "Ma vhenan," she whispers, more to reassure herself than anything.

Isabela _tsks_ , reaching into a pouch along her hip and pulling a salve and some bandages out, before setting to dress the wound. "I told you to stay out of the clearing. Those were _templars_ , you…you sweet… _stupid_ girl." Isabela shakes her head, eyes on Merrill's bloody thigh.

Merrill's lips quiver as she tries to speak, her mind still reeling from the magical violation. "I saw…I saw the fifth one come from the shadows and you…you were…"

"I had it under control."

"But I –"

"Hush." Isabela pulls the bandage tight and Merrill winces at it. The pirate sighs, long and low, her hands stilling over the other woman's thigh.

Merrill's hand flexes in Isabela's hair. She knows, as she has always known, that it is a temporary love between them. A short burst of radiance and intensity, a quiver of tongues, a press of heated skin, an easy comfort in the night when their hearts are tired of calling to the dark. She knows that she has no claim to the pirate's affections, nothing lasting at least, and while she has never asked for more, never demanded a firmer commitment on the Rivaini's part, she can't help that shuttered, desperate part of her that wonders if she will ever stop watching the backs of those she loves as they walk away.

She had seen the templar's steel and suddenly, she had only wanted to keep her.

Merrill's eyes fill with tears, unbidden. She knows. She _knows_.

And yet…

Some part of her hadn't expected to have anything less than a lifetime with Isabela.

Such a foolish thought. Such a stupid, impossible thought.

Maybe – as they've always said – she's just a foolish girl.

Merrill swallows back that sharp slice of realization and keeps it bundled in her lungs with all her air. Burning tight and fierce in her chest.

Please gods, just this once, just this once, let her _keep_ that which she loves.

Isabela stares long at Merrill's wound, her hands dark along the elf's pale thigh, her head bowed low. Both their knees dig into the sodden dirt of the forest, and Merrill's hand slips from Isabela's hair soundlessly.

They breathe together between the trees and finally Merrill finds her voice again. "I'm sorry, vhenan." Her voice is a coarse whisper, laced with pain and blood, some of it not her own.

"Hush," Isabela repeats, only this time softer. Another moment of taut silence, and then she is pushing from the ground, reaching her hands out toward Merrill expectantly.

She takes hold of her lover, and Isabela pulls her up, throwing one of her arms around her shoulders and bracing the petite elf against her thicker, curvier form. "We have to keep moving. There's a port city not far from here. Can you walk?"

Merrill nods, fingers curling into the material of Isabela's tunic, holding tight.

They set off, and Merrill wonders if she will ever be able to unfurl that fist again.

* * *

The wind is rough, and the sky is an overripe grayish-orange at dusk. Sails flap above them and Merrill begins to understand how the hull might seem a cage to Isabela. The horizon retreats into darkness but there is light enough to catch the blinding smile along Isabela's face, the glint of her eyes, the –

Merrill stops, gaze fixing to the pirate's neck where a dim bruise is fixed to her tan skin. Her face flushes red and she reaches for it instinctively.

Isabela glances to her at the touch. The ocean spray is cold and sharp against them.

"I'm sorry, vhenan, I didn't…didn't realize…" She trails off, face still a warm pink. But there is a fascination in the way her fingertips brush along Isabela's pulse point.

The Rivaini smirks. "What? That you had a wild side?" She laughs, bright and loud, and it dashes the fear from Merrill.

If it was the only sound she could ever hear again, she knows, she'd gladly drown in it.

"It isn't…" But nothing sounds right, because 'wild' is the last word she'd call herself when naked and sweat-slicked and braced against Isabela's anchoring warmth. Content, maybe. Anxious. Curious. Desperate even, some nights.

But 'wild' suggests that there is a recklessness to her love-making, when in actuality, Merrill is agonizingly aware of every kiss and every caress and every swipe of tongue.

She swallows thickly.

She was lying when she said she hadn't meant to. Because she always _means_ to. Even when she doesn't quite realize that she does. Some part of her _wants_ to mark Isabela.

There's a definitiveness to the act. An assurance. Especially when Isabela takes no pains to bother covering it. She wears her marks freely.

It makes the space behind Merrill's ribcage constrict with heat.

It's a rather becoming bruise, she thinks, smile tugging slightly at the corners of her mouth, and then – suddenly – like the snap of sails above their heads, her would-be smile cracks, falters. She clamps her mouth tightly closed and flicks her darkening gaze from the mark.

It won't last.

Because even blood fades eventually. All things do, really. She knows this already.

She shifts her carved-up wrist beneath her coat, holds it tight to her body.

Isabela turns and leans her elbows back along the rail of the ship. "You look so _guilty_ , Kitten," she laughs.

Isabela leans forward then, breath tickling along Merrill's lips, and if she breathes deep enough Merrill can smell the sharp, alluring tang of wine and copper and saffron that always suffuses the other woman.

"I rather like it," Isabela whispers, winking, before pulling back.

Merrill's hands find the rail, her eyes going out over the sea, her body taut with a thread of desire that curls familiarly in her stomach.

At night, sometimes the spirits call her name and she finds her hands are already reaching for Isabela, already lighting up her arms and tugging at her hips and fisting in her hair.

Desire is a vague and undisclosed thing to Merrill. Sometimes it tastes like blood.

Sometimes it tastes like saffron.

Sometimes it doesn't taste like anything at all. Just a strangled gasp of crisp air on her tongue.

She has never let herself dwell long enough on desire to feel the loss of it when it goes.

In this way, she doesn't recognize dread the way she should.

Merrill licks her lips, gazing out over the sea. Her nostrils flare with the caught scent of burning ozone. Her brows furrow sharply down. "The air has changed," she says simply.

Isabela eyes her in confusion a moment, and then turns around from her lean, eyes fixing to the clouds on the horizon. "Hmm," she muses. "Looks like a storm's coming."

Instead of the solemnity Merrill expects, a look of excitement flashes across the rogue's features. She beams proudly down at Merrill. "Perhaps you'll make a decent pirate yet." There is a fondness to the words that strikes Merrill with its simplicity and earnestness.

"Good," she answers, "Because I don't think you'd make a very good Dalish, Isabela." She doesn't know where the words come from, but she forces the smile to her lips and peers up into the rogue's gleaming eyes.

Isabela laughs again, pushing from the rail as she saunters off toward the captain. "Perhaps it's all well and good you don't have to bring me home to the clan then, eh, Kitten?" Her laugh is lost on the wind and Merrill stands rocking along the edge of the boat with the jostling waves, watching the space her lover no longer occupies.

And then, quietly – a fragile, hesitant thing – her voice finds air. "You _are_ my clan."

The storm answers three hours later and Merrill grips at the mast while Isabela crows from the rigging of the topgallant yard.

Her saffron scent is lost at sea, drowned in salt and soaked whitewood.

* * *

They make it to Rivain on the fourth day and stand looking out over the city from the high dock. Isabela is silent beside her for many moments, until Merrill takes her hand and holds it to her chest.

"We made it," she says excitedly.

Isabela smiles fondly at her. "Yes, Kitten, we did."

It smells like cloves and thunder.

"Well," Isabela begins, heaving a loud sigh. "Welcome to Llomerryn."

Merrill watches the glint of sunlight on Isabela's eyes, just before they go dark. It is a quiet, easy thing. The slow dimming of sound, the tightness in her jaw, the flex of her fingers in her hand. The ground is too steady, too still, and the waves lap at the dock behind them, taunting, reminding.

Isabela hasn't looked quite so unhappy in such a long while.

"There's a fairly regular Dalish settlement outside the city," the pirate says, turning to her. "Shall I take you there?" She flashes a false smile.

Merrill stops her before they can take any further steps inland.

She has learned many things during her years in Kirkwall. Most importantly, she has learned that the world is not obligated to be kind to you, even when you are kind to others. _Especially_ so. She has learned that there is no inherent justice to the workings of the world, no pattern of goodness. People live out their lives and events unfold themselves and in the end, the universe is as impartial as the sea. It rocks to the waves and dims with the wind and while one can never hope to tame it, there is always the chance of a safe crossing – uneventful, steady, sunlit – if one is an experienced sailor.

But then it would hardly be worth the crossing.

There is no bending the ocean to your will, no cultivating of it, no mastery. You let it take you. And hope you'll break the surface soon enough to breathe but really, you don't mind the drowning.

Not when it tastes like saffron.

Merrill knows, perhaps more than anyone, that there is no _having_ something simply for wanting it.

And as much as she may want Isabela, the simple virtue of her need does not necessitate the granting of her wish.

But she should like to have her, for just a while longer.

"I want to see the rest of the docks," she answers simply.

Isabela cocks a brow her way. "Not much to see, Kitten."

Merrill's eyes drift down to the rogue's hand held against her chest. Isabela makes no move to retract her touch. "Still, I want to see them."

The wind rustles Isabela's dark hair and something changes in the air.

Merrill offers up a sweet smile that says nothing of her longing. "You've always liked the docks," she offers up as explanation. Nothing else is worth saying.

Yes, just a while longer, she thinks.

Isabela tugs her along, and the sea is never far enough not to hear.

Merrill can recognize its call by heart now.

* * *

"Oh please, Isabela, be honest – will it hurt much?" She bites her lip and implores the pirate with her eyes.

Isabela throws her head back with the laughter, her hand pulling from Merrill's ear and settling in her lap once more, the needle held firmly between her fingers. "Oh Merrill, a little blood magic ceases to unsettle you and yet you can't take a silly old ear-piercing?" Her eyes glint in merriment.

Merrill frowns, just slightly, fidgeting in her seat. "It's the face, Isabela. Anything near the face just…" She shivers instead of finishing the sentence, shaking her head. She laughs at her own foolishness.

And then Isabela's lips press softly to her nose, just a quick peck, and then her hand is on the elf's cheek, fingers warm and steady. "And such a pretty face it is. I wouldn't mar it, love."

Merrill wonders how she can feel so suddenly at ease. How simply Isabela's breath and her words and her easy, calm comfort is enough to settle the shadows of her heart. And such a silly fear it is.

They have each born enough marks in this life that it should be no difficult thing to yield their flesh to each other.

Creators know Isabela has offered more than Merrill thinks she is ready for.

Or deserving of.

Merrill pulls in a slow breath and nods, hands moving to rest over her knees as she sits kneeling on the floor. "Okay. I'm ready."

Isabela holds the needle over the candle flame once more, and when it is sufficiently heated, she smiles toward the elf, braces her hands along her offered ear, and without much warning, stabs the needle into her skin.

"Ow!" Merrill cries, squeezing her eyes shut as she flinches from the pain, but it is only temporary, and the cool press of Isabela's salve-covered cloth soon follows the sharp sting.

"There. That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Merrill only grunts, tears at her lids, nodding silently.

Isabela laughs again, pulling the compress from her ear and clearing the blood from the wound as she cleans it. "I've got just the thing for you, love."

Merrill cracks one eye open to peer at the soft green jewel held up before her. "What is it?"

"Adonite. A rarer form of Malachite." She turns the small jewel over to reveal the needle and hook welded to its back. "It's a softer green, and the stone edge is a bit rougher but it glows beautifully in the dark. Thought of you instantly, Kitten." She moves to slide the jeweled earing through Merrill's new ear-piercing, gently, with the tender touch of a conscientious lover.

Merrill holds back the slight wince at the pain and flicks her gaze to Isabela.

Once Isabela is done, she lays the bloodied rag back on the table beside them and eyes her work appreciatively. "Though, the stone is known to crack a bit easier than your everyday Malachite, so be careful, love."

Merrill touches the stone hesitantly, her eyes never leaving Isabela. "I'll take good care of it."

The rogue smiles warmly. "I don't doubt it."

"Thank you, ma vhenan."

She shrugs, smile turning impish. "It rather suits you, Kitten."

Isabela's touch always has.

But Merrill keeps her lips clamped tight over the thought.

* * *

"Got myself a ship now, Kitten."

Merrill pauses her mug of mead halfway to her lips. The tavern continues on boisterously around them and the stale air is suddenly tight in Merrill's lungs. "Oh," she says dumbly. Because what else is there to say?

Isabela leans back in her chair and takes a long swig from her ale, boots propped on the table, eyes flitting to the tavern's doors. "I imagine you're tired of the sea by now. But you know," she glances to the table, fingers flexing around her mug's handle, "You'll always have safe passage with me. Is there somewhere I can take you, love?"

Merrill is silent for a long time, her own mug settling along the tabletop. And then, in a low exhale of air, "I suppose I never really thought about it."

"Hmm."

"And you? Where will you go?"

Isabela shrugs, a nonchalant grin tugging at her lips that – if Merrill looks too closely – seems just a bit too tight and just a bit too grim. "There's a lot this world has to offer the adventuring sort. Guess I'll make my way across the sea and go where the waves take me. There's profit and fun to be had anywhere I suppose."

"I suppose," Merrill echoes hollowly.

She wonders if she has been just another port in Isabela's worldly voyage.

Isabela takes a hefty drink from her mug, and then drops her feet to the floor, leaning her elbows over the table so that she can lock gazes with Merrill. "Of course, I'll need a crew."

Merrill blinks at her.

She has never deluded herself into thinking that this was anything more than a passing dream. One she has clung to far more than any other to be sure, but still, only transitory, only…

That ever-present knot of uncertainty tugs at her insides, reminding her, assuring her – there are no absolutes.

And yet, her belief in such seems to go unchanged. Is that not an absolute in itself?

The thought gnaws at her, hidden, in the far recesses of her mind.

"You know," Isabela begins, finger tracing a circle along the table, eyes never reaching hers, "you might make a good first mate."

Merrill swallows tightly, watching her.

"We'd have to get you a hat though," she continues, leaning back in her chair and taking another drink. "All good first mates have a smashing hat to go with the title."

Merrill is surprised she finds her voice so quickly. "I don't think I'd look too good in a hat actually."

Isabela scoffs. "Nonsense. You didn't think you'd look good with an earring either but there you go." She motions to the piercing.

"Only thanks to you."

"Hush. I had nothing to do with it."

They stare at each other for long moments. Merrill begins to wonder if the only thing reliable in her life is heartache. It is such a familiar sensation. It burrows deep in her chest and claims its home.

She licks her lips and tries to speak but nothing comes.

Isabela's smile tells of an all too recognizable resignation.

And even still…

Even still.

Merrill loves her just enough to hold her and too much to cage her.

"You wear it nicely, love."

Merrill's hand goes to the jeweled earring, feels the coarse edge of it.

Isabela stretches her hand out across the table.

Merrill wonders if she knows what she asks, what she offers, what she has just promised of herself. But when she looks up at her, eyes catching in the dim lamplight of the tavern, she thinks maybe that hand has always been there.

Palm up.

Fingers unfurled.

Open.

Merrill takes her hand. She has already taken her heart. What is a future to that?

"The hat – will it have many feathers, do you think?" Merrill asks.

Isabela only smiles.

* * *

She has been so used to a wayward heart. So familiar with movement and change and the quiet upheaval of one's affections – because to linger could only mean ruin and there are few things Merrill is willing to risk in the face of such.

She has an arm full of scars and a past full of loss to attest to that.

Merrill looks out across the ship's bow and breathes deep. Even in the heavy salt air she can smell the heady whitewood of the hull. Her hand moves along the rail, the smooth grain of wood comforting in ways she tries not to dwell too long on.

In a sea of change, this ship alone, weighted with the burden of their need, keeps the course.

Uncertainty is, by definition, a certain state.

And maybe she has looked too long in one direction that the assurance of Isabela's affections has passed her in the night, unnoticed.

Isabela calls to her from the crow's nest. She glances up, shielding her eyes from the sun with a pale hand. She thinks she sees the glint of her smile, but it is too bright, and too quick, and Merrill finds a fleeting sense of anchorage in the passing image.

In loving what is transitory, she has learned to love herself.

The sea is kind to her, in the end.

Through waves and storms and the brief steadiness that land sometimes offers, Merrill fastens herself to sun-warmed skin and saffron lips.

The whitewood is firm and unfailing beneath her bare soles.

This ship may bear them through yet.

It may bear them through.


End file.
